


smile

by diminishedmercury



Category: Original Work
Genre: 5+1 form, F/M, M/M, ailill has been through a lot, will i ever let this boy rest?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diminishedmercury/pseuds/diminishedmercury
Summary: “You lied to me, Jericho,” He whispers into the man’s ear, hand firmly wrapped around a throat that struggles to suck in air. “And now I am your executioner. How does it feel to die at a whore’s hands?” He can’t understand the words that Jericho tries to gargle around the grip around his neck, but he doesn’t care. It feels so good to be on the other end of violence. He doesn’t let go of his grip until he sees the last light of life leave the sick bastard’s eyes. He doesn’t care who finds his body— no one would touch the Mactirs’ property other than one of the Mactirs’ themselves. He is punished severely for his actions, but he only revels in the pain of the whip cracking against the skin on his back. Power felt so good to call his own.OR: Five times Ailill felt pain and one time he didn't have to.
Relationships: Ailill Vermillion/Blaine Tybalt/Chroma Khan, Ailill Vermillion/Layla Verix
Kudos: 1





	smile

**I. Jericho**

He meets Jericho when he visits his sister in the brothel. He’s heard a little about him from Aisling and knows that he is one of Aisling’s favorite clients. He seems well-mannered and gentle with her when he happens to visit at the tail-end of one of their meetings and he doesn’t mind that he sees his sister (though, he would prefer if Aisling never had to see a single one of these men or women ever again).

“Ailill, was it?” He asks him one day, stopping him before he can enter Aisling’s room. He doesn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. It’s dark and swirling and the once sky blue looks as horrifying as the depths of the ocean. He touches his hip and it takes every ounce of self-control that Ailill has to not knock the man flat on his ass then and there. He can’t risk this for Aisling, though. He can’t ruin what appears to be one of her few instances of solace when Jericho is around. “I can make sure she stays here, if you’ll do something for me. Equal, isn’t it?”

His teeth gnash together in his skull and the displeased look must be obvious on his face by the way the grip at his hip tightens. Jericho looks pleased with himself. It makes Ailill sick. “Just speak plainly, Jericho.” He doesn’t want to beat around the bush. Jericho must already know he’ll do anything to keep Aisling safe.

“Be a good boy and I’ll make sure the Vermilion siblings stay together.” His ears flatten at the top of his head as anger flares in the pit of his stomach. He wants to scream, wants to tear into flesh, wants to destroy. “And let her see just how much her big brother cares for her.” Too many lines have already been crossed. He can’t do that to Aisling. He  _ can’t _ .

“ _ No _ .” He hisses and the grip on his hip becomes painful. He feels his lips curl into a feral snarl. “She will  _ not  _ be involved.”

“She already is,” He says simply and steps away. He feels helpless. He doesn’t know what he thinks is a worse fate— allow his body to be used by this slimy creature for god knows how long or force his sister to  _ watch  _ this slimy creature use his body. “Make your choice, Ailill. I can’t keep you together if you don’t do anything. I’ve already heard they plan to sell her off to a whore house in Lunaria. You wouldn’t be able to see her if she were so far, would you?” His head spins when he hears the words “sell” and “Lunaria.” How could he protect her if she were a days’ trip away? How could he make sure men like Jericho didn’t ruin her innocence if she were in Lunaria? How could he make sure that the Lunarians didn’t hurt the same way the Ravicans have hurt them? He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“Just do what you want with me,” His voice is small, defeated and he feels hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Jericho smiles and touches his cheek.

“What a pretty expression…”

There is pain and forced pleasure that swirl in his mind that night. It’s fuzzy memories at best, but he remembers the pain that shot through his head when teeth sank into his ears, remembers the way his hands had flexed in their bonds trying to find purchase against  _ anything _ , remembers being fucked so hard his head was smashed into the headboard over and  _ over  _ and  **_over._ ** He remembers thinking it would never end. He remembers Aisling whimpering in a corner, remembers her voice apologizing to him, remembers Jericho laughing when he shoved her down next to him and fucked her next. He thinks she hid her face in his chest while it was happening, but he really can’t make sense of it. He only remembers tears silently trekking down his cheeks as he held on tightly to Aisling. Jericho was nowhere in sight, but he could feel her sobs wet his neck all the same.

Jericho doesn’t ask him to share his nights with Aisling after that. Apparently, he had seen what he wanted to on the first one. He seeks out Ailil when he wants something more violent than what Aisling can take. It’s usually after he’s found victory in the pits, blood dripping from his nose to splash a pretty painting on his chest. By now, he’s at least been able to find enjoyment in the pain. It’s easier to confront that way, easier to pretend that he likes what is happening to him.

Aisling is sold off even with all that he has given up to Jericho. He feels sick, rage burning hot in his belly. Jericho asks to see him that night— Ailill doesn’t think that he knows that  _ Ailill  _ knows about his sister. The night does not go the way all of the others had. Years of anguish are released on Jericho’s body, his knuckles swell from the pain of bone crunching beneath them, and he can hardly recognize the man through the puffed up eyes and smattering of bruises across his face. He looks terrified of the creature standing above and there’s a rush of excitement that runs up Ailill’s spine as he spits in the man’s sobbing mouth and forces the heel of his boot more harshly down against the man’s testicles. He  _ wants  _ the damage to be permanent. Wants this filthy man to remember the pain he inflicts on him today.

“You lied to me, Jericho,” He whispers into the man’s ear, hand firmly wrapped around a throat that struggles to suck in air. “And now I am your  _ executioner.  _ How does it feel to die at a whore’s hands?” He can’t understand the words that Jericho tries to gargle around the grip around his neck, but he doesn’t care. It feels so good to be on the other end of violence. He doesn’t let go of his grip until he sees the last light of life leave the sick bastard’s eyes. He doesn’t care who finds his body— no one would touch the Mactirs’ property other than one of the Mactirs’ themselves. He is punished severely for his actions, but he only revels in the pain of the whip cracking against the skin on his back. Power felt so  _ good  _ to call his own.

* * *

**II. Brynn**

His leash is kept short after the incident with Jericho, but it doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing in Ravica for him now that Aisling has been sent away to Lunaria. He doesn’t care to wander the bazaars as he once had— what good was a gift that he wouldn’t be able to give his little sister?

His time is mostly spent in his quarters and the fighting pits. Sometimes he finds himself in the medical bay, but most of the time he’s left to lick his wounds on his own. He doesn’t care. The pain reminded him that he was still alive, even if it felt like he was a ghost haunting the fighting pits of the Mactir family.

He meets Brynn unexpectedly. She’s a hybrid, but it would have been impossible to tell if he didn’t know that she was a slave (or, excuse him, a  _ prized asset to the Mactir family _ ). She’s young, couldn’t be older than thirteen, and he feels badly for the poor girl. At least he didn’t understand what was happening to him when he was sold off by his parents. It’s a hierarchy in the cafeteria meant to feed all of the slaves in. It’s like a prison, really, with the cliques and the unofficial gangs that run around bullying the weaker for their money or rations. Brynn, unsurprisingly, is dubbed  _ weak  _ with her frail body and short stature. She would need to make friends to survive the slaves, let alone the ones who owned them.

“Let’s have some fun with her, boys,” He doesn’t like the conversation he’s hearing as he approaches the group that’s surrounded the poor thing. It disgusts him to know that the very people suffering in bonds with him are the same ones who would touch a  _ child  _ to claw back a sense of power that eluded them all.

“Just leave me alone!” She hisses, curled around the sad excuse for bread that they were given as their meal that day. One of the men grabs her by the hair and  _ pulls _ and it yanks a high-pitched screech out of the little girl’s chest. She claws at his arm and it’s the first time he sees any animal features on her— retractable claws. Blood drips onto the table below them.

“You little bitch!” The man hisses back and pulls back his other hand to hit her— Ailill catches it before it can connect and snarls in warning. “A-Ailill!”

“ _ Leave _ ,” is all he says. The men all look between each other. None of them look brave enough to challenge what they’re probably interpreting as Ailill’s ‘claim,’ but he wasn’t about to correct them. He would never stoop as low as these men, but he knew the only way to keep this child safe was to play along.

“She’s all yours,” The man relents, letting go of the girl’s hair and wincing when he tries to wrench his hand free from his grasp. He doesn’t let go. “W-We won’t fuck with her no more! We didn’t know she was yours!”

“If you do, I’ll know,” He warns, before he relents himself and lets the group scurry away to another part of the cafeteria. He plops down next to the kid, who’s staring at him with distrust in her eyes, and grins. “Hello, Ailill here!”

“Uh…”

“Let’s be friends, yea?” He puts on his best puppy dog eyes, and he watches as the girl visibly relaxes under his gaze.  _ Still got it _ , he thinks to himself.

“Thanks,” Her voice is small, but he doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t blame her if she’s afraid. He still was, even after nearly twenty years in captivity. He looks at her expectantly for a minute and she has the sense to look sheepish. “I’m Brynn…”

“Hmm. How old are you, Brynn?”

“Twelve.” 

“I can’t believe I’m a father to a twelve-year-old at such a young age,” He jokes, wiping at a fake tear that doesn’t well up. Brynn laughs at his antics and he smiles even more broadly. He hopes that he can bring some joy to this child’s heart— he knows the kind of pain that will be brought to it soon enough.

* * *

Brynn is made to fight in the pits when she is fifteen. His heart nearly breaks in his chest when he hears the news. She’s not as young as he was when he started in the rings, but he knows what will happen soon enough. He can’t hurt her. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

He’s come to learn much about Brynn. He knows her favorite food is cookies made with luxite berries, he knows that her favorite color is blue (like the moon, she had said), he knows that she hates it when he zones out on her stories (he can’t help it! He just likes listening to his person talk! He doesn’t need the content to be content!), he knows that her parents had died and she had been purchased from the orphanage, he knows that she has siblings that she doesn’t know what happened to, he just— knows. He loves Brynn. She’s become a part of him as much as Aisling was.

But Brynn was in the fighting pits. And she was  _ good  _ at it. He doesn’t know what is more selfish— to wish that she would die at the hands of another fighter so it doesn’t have to be him or to know that he will not allow himself to lose to even Brynn. It hurts when he thinks about his sweet Brynn in those rings. It hurts to think about the not-so-distant future. It hurts everywhere and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to lose.

It’s as if the Elder Tree herself knew what day it was. Fog filled the sky and streets, an eerie aura falling over Ravica City. He was to fight Brynn today. He tries to beg his captors for a different match, asks them to pit him against  _ anyone  _ else, but they don’t budge. He thinks they have done this on purpose. He’s still being punished for Jericho.

He blacks out when the match begins. He doesn’t feel his body move, doesn’t register that he is fighting. He can’t stand the knowledge that he is the one killing his precious Brynn. He can’t live with the memories of it. He doesn’t know how long the match is, but he comes back to himself when the bell rings and signals the end of the fight. He is not dead, so he knows that he has won. Pain flares up across his face and he screams, blood dripping from a deep slash across his nose. Pain flares up in his torn side, blood spilling onto the dirt floor beneath him. Blood rushes in his ears and he cannot hear the crowd cheering, cannot hear the medics that normally tend to him. His blurred vision doesn’t register what he is curled over and he feels hands trying to pull him up, but he can’t move. HIs instincts tell him that he must  _ protect, protect, protect. _

1

When they finally manage to peel him off of whatever he had been curled over, he lets out a scream of anguish. It doesn’t sound human to him, more like the sound of a mourning luxine howling into the night air.  _ What did he do? What did he  _ **_do_ ** _ to her? _

The image of sweet, sweet Brynn, her insides spilling out to create her outsides, is burned into his nightmares.

“ _ Now  _ we can forget Jericho, Ailill.” Remus whispers to him while he is recovering in the medical bay and all he can do is whimper pathetically and clutch the ribbon Brynn had always worn close to his chest.

* * *

**III. Remus**

He’s not really sure  _ when  _ he becomes one of Remus’ favorites. It’s sometime in between cementing himself at the top of the food chain (as far up as a slave could go, at least) and when Brynn had perished at his hands. His leash is loosened just a little bit after the Brynn incident, but he doesn’t really take advantage of the new freedoms he’s afforded. It was a joke after all. Freedom was such a foreign concept to him that he just didn’t know what to  _ do  _ when he was allowed to make choices for himself.

He lets Remus decide for him. And, well, sleeping with the boss of the Mactir family as a lowly fighter wasn’t all bad. He was given good food ( _ real, actual food _ ) and wine when Remus would have him spend his nights in his bed and he was given pleasure that he took on his own terms.

He was used to pain. He was used to being hurt. But he wasn’t used to it being so sweet. He doesn’t mind prostrating himself for the man, doesn’t really mind the way his throat burns after a long night spent pleasuring his boss. Hell, he might even say that he  _ likes  _ the way it hurts.

“What a little masochist,” Remus breathes one night, petting his hair with what could almost pass for affection in his eyes. But it’s the kind of affection that one showed their pet, not their lover. He wasn’t Remus’ lover. He was a pet. The special kind that you showed off to your friends to brag about how wealthy you were. The kind that you kept all dolled up at your side when everyone was watching. It felt good in a sickening way and he realized that there was some truth to Remus’ words. Pain… it was all that he could count on, but he liked it better when the pain was sweet in its sting. 

He wordlessly offers himself up to Remus, chest and face pressed down into soft pillows he could never afford and legs spread far with his ass in the air. He hears Remus laugh as he feels a hand caress down the side of his body. He whimpers from somewhere deep in his throat. It hurts when Remus pushes into his body, nothing to soothe the entrance, but he arches his back into the feeling of pain and silently begs for more. This was the pain that he liked. This was the pain that he could control.

It was a shame that he would have to kill Remus one day.

* * *

**IV. Verix**

Verix is the next person to show him what pain means, but maybe not in the way that either of them had intended. He’s  _ met  _ vampires before (not often, but enough to know that they were all generally pissed off at life), but never one that pulled him in like a gravity surge. She almost expects him to be afraid of her when they first meet, but he doesn’t see a reason to be. Danger has never scared him before. She teases him about his apparent lack of knowledge about what she assumes to be simple things (but, really, the flashing lights in the window of that diner was a magical mystery that he doesn’t think he would  _ ever  _ understand) and he allows it for the sake of trying to make a friend.

She doesn’t like that. Or maybe she does. He thinks it just makes her uncomfortable to know that someone might be willing to be kind to her, teeth and all. They work out some sort of beneficial relationship eventually. He still doesn’t really know what it means to be a breacher (it’s magic that he’s never had an interest to experiment with before he’d picked up that stupid pyramid) and she needed a source of blood that didn’t involve murdering someone. And besides— Ailill  _ liked  _ the feeling of teeth sinking into his skin and pulling out the essence of his life. He thinks back to the word  _ masochist  _ and he thinks the word has never been more accurate for him.

She leaves marks on his neck, his arms, his chest. He doesn’t mind them. He thinks that she wants to ask more about him, but she never does. He offers up the information without prompting. “Red is my favorite color!” He cheerfully supplies while she’s got her fangs stuck into the side of his neck. He can practically feel the amusement radiating off of her body. “And I like milkshakes. Those are good. I think those are my favorite things in the multiverse.” Even if the concept of what the food really was eluded him, he  _ really  _ liked milkshakes. They were sweet and creamy and he could daydream about a good ‘strawberry’ one for hours. He still doesn’t even know what a strawberry was.

“ _ Milkshakes _ are the best thing you’ve found?” She asks, and a shiver runs down his spine seeing her like his blood from her lips. It shouldn’t be as beautiful of a sight as it is.

“Mm-hm. And a vampire. I think I like vampires.” Pink tinges her pale cheeks and she frowns looking at him. “Can you bite me again?” He asks, innocently.

“Why do you like this so much?” She asks, absentmindedly licking at the wound still leaking out blood. She looks contemplative, like she’s trying to come up with an answer to her own question.

“... It,” He doesn’t know how to really explain it. Giving up his life to keep someone else healthy was something he’s done his  _ entire  _ life. He thinks of Aisling. He thinks of Brynn. He failed for them, but he doesn’t want to fail for Verix. Giving away his life reminds him of those he calls his sisters, giving away his life reminds him that he’s still alive in a morbid way. “It makes me feel— Makes me feel wanted.” He settles on, his ears flattened at the top of his skull.

Her hand is cold against his cheek. “Who wouldn’t want you?” She asks and he thinks that she maybe hadn’t meant to say that when she immediately pulls away and hides her face in his neck again. He sighs and relaxes his body when he feels her licking and biting again. She doesn’t know that the words bring more pain than anything she could do to him physically, but it’s a pang that’s lulled by sweet desire. He wants to remember Verix’s type of pain.

“I like you,” He says, closing his eyes and leaning his head backwards. She doesn’t reply and he doesn’t expect her to.

* * *

**V. Archon**

He thinks that he knows what pain is, but he’s sorely mistaken when he meets Archon Vereliha for the first time. He’s wicked in all his righteousness. He isn’t frightened by many things in life, but Archon strikes such an intense feeling of  _ fear  _ in his heart that his instincts tell him to  _ run _ . The way bile rises in his throat when he thinks of what Archon might do to him if he is caught leaves an aftertaste of panic.

This man is evil incarnate. He’s seen the way he looks at him. He’s seen the way his eyes plot and narrow when he’s looking at what he assumes is Archon’s game.

He’s never wanted to run in his entire life. But he does.

Fear feels worse than any pain he’s felt before in his life.

* * *

**\+ I.** **Blaine & Chroma**

Pain was something that he had come to rely on. Pain was something that was a constant in his life, whether it was sweet or not. It’s hard for him to keep track of what is happening when he meets Chroma and Blaine. He’s landed himself in a place that calls itself “Remnant” and he finds the irony of that to be somewhat hysterical. He’s a remnant of a man in a place that was so divided that he wasn’t even sure who was technically “good” and who was “bad.” And it’s not like it really mattered to him— this wasn’t his home and he knows that he’s going to have to move on soon enough. Archon would just follow him to whatever universe he found himself in.

But Chroma. He finds himself inexplicably attracted to him in so many ways. He’s a burning forest fire and Ailill wants to see himself go up in flames. The way he smiles so freely, the way he protects his own so fiercely... he wants to be Chroma’s too. Wants to feel that swell of desire and care that he drapes across his family and teammates. He’s never known love so pure, so untouched by the corruption of the universe. He knows even his relationship with Aisling was corrupted (shared trauma tended to have that effect) and he doesn’t want codependency in the way he had relied on Aisling and Brynn.

He finds himself clinging to Chroma’s side more often than not. He doesn’t know anyone else here in this world and it’s a little hard for him to just let go of these precious feelings. They don’t come with pain like he expects them to.

Sometimes, Chroma will forget himself and let himself  _ touch _ . It leaves a burning trail on his skin and he always chases after the feeling when Chroma decides he just wants to tease at the beginning of  _ something _ . He’s frustrated, but there is no pain and it leaves his chest feeling light. Meeting Blaine only further conflicts his heart. He’s out with Chroma, practically curled around his body on the tatami mats of the bar floor. He likes watching Chroma drink, but he never participates himself. He doesn’t like the feeling of being intoxicated— he feels too powerless, feels like he’s giving up too much of the freedom that he’s worked so hard to earn. But he likes the drunken touches that Chroma leaves on his skin, likes the way his cheeks darken just a little bit from the liquor. He just likes… touch.

“Chroma?” He hears a voice call and he turns his head enough to catch a glimpse of porcelain skin and pretty feathers. Faunus, he thinks Chroma had called him. He wonders what kind of bird influenced his heritage. It must be something elegant, something that walked with regality.

“Blaine!” Chroma sounds excited and it isn’t jealousy that twists in his belly. He just wishes that he could keep some attention for himself, likes to bask in the touches and the dirty words Chroma sometimes will whisper to him. “Come join us,” He offers and the man looks exasperated. He must be used to this. Maybe not the drinking, but Chroma certainly had some impulsive tendencies that Ailill had taken note of in the short time he’s known him.

‘Blaine’ does join them, taking the seat next to Chroma that isn’t occupied by Ailill. He looks curiously at the redhead, almost like he’s trying to unravel a puzzle placed before him. “Who is this?”

“Ailill,” He says, voice heavy with the accent he’s never been able to rid himself of. He hates the language that most of these universes seem to have chosen as their own, but at least it was a constant. Nothing else was ever the same. Blaine joins Chroma in a few drinks, but he clearly holds his liquor better than the faunus that now has his tail wrapped around Ailill’s midriff. He doesn’t mind it. He likes hearing Blaine’s voice and he thinks it would be a shame to hear it slurred by the sweet wine that Chroma has been sipping on.

* * *

Blaine spends more time with him after that first night and Ailill isn’t that surprised to find out that he was a teacher. Professor? He doesn’t really know the difference, but he fits the look and intelligence of a scholar. He thinks that he may tire out the man, but it’s a pleasant surprise to find that Blaine seems to like his attention as much as he likes the peacock’s (whatever that was).

He doesn’t  _ mean  _ to sleep with Blaine. Well, maybe he does, but he doesn’t mean to make anything physical out of the connections that he shares with Chroma and Blaine. He likes them both, is attracted to them both, but he hadn’t wanted to muddy the pain-free love he’d been growing in his heart for them.

Blaine is gentle with him and it’s such a contrast to Remus or any other lover he’s had that tears spill down his cheeks while he slowly rocks back into the deep, shallow thrusts that Blaine makes into his body. “Are you alright?” Blaine asks him, stilling his movements and the sentiment is so intense that it causes more tears to flow freely down his cheeks. 

“You just make me feel so good,” He laughs wetly and the smile he receives in return burns hot in his chest. There’s no pain. No pain and yet he craves it, wants to feel it, and yet he doesn’t want it all at the same time. He just wants what Blaine is giving to him, just wants to feel 

this sweet, precious emotion that’s brewing deep in his stomach.

* * *

He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he expects Chroma to be mad that he’s slept with Blaine. Chroma has never really shown any sort of temper towards him or Blaine in the time he’s known him. He just wasn’t really expecting a pouting “Why didn’t you guys invite me?”

He blinks once, twice, three times. There’s a wetness that clings to his lashes and he doesn’t know why he’s crying. “I…”

Chroma looks panicked, throwing his arms out wildly. “Are you okay?! Why are you crying?! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” It’s so incredibly  _ stupid  _ that Chroma would think he makes him uncomfortable, but it forces a full-bellied laugh out of his stomach and he can’t stop the soothing feeling of contentment that washes over his shoulders.

“I’ve never gone so long without pain,” He breathes, taking Chroma’s cheeks into his palms and pulling him close. “I am glad you could show me what that was like.” He presses a kiss to the man’s forehead, smiling stupidly to himself.


End file.
